


The Trolley Problem

by RadioactiveRoulette



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioactiveRoulette/pseuds/RadioactiveRoulette
Summary: Prognostication has its drawbacks.
Relationships: Barclay & Indrid Cold (The Adventure Zone), Edmund "Ned" Chicane & Aubrey Little & Duck Newton, Indrid Cold & Duck Newton, Indrid Cold (The Adventure Zone)/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	1. Of Ducks and Doors

The wheel of your suitcase catches on a loose floorboard, causing the meager contents to collide within. Exhaustion has elicited a wave of apathy; you find yourself incapable of more than a disgruntled huff. This is really just the shit icing on the absolute dumpster fire cake of a week that you've had and quite frankly? You are _over it._

Moving all the way back to Kepler hadn't even been on your radar at the beginning of this month. You sigh, frustrated and overwhelmed as you take in the empty apartment you now own. 

The place could be worse, you decide. Your suitcase lays abandoned by the door, looking even smaller in the barren space. The apartment is fairly large, for whatever that is worth. Probably would be a better consolation for someone that had more than one suitcase worth of belongings. Still, this is supposed to be a new start, a new life... your new life. Inevitable really, that you'll have to buy furniture... so at least you have plenty of room to work with. The main room seems to be fairly spacious - two doors and a small hallway are visible to your right, and a small kitchenette frames the back wall. 

You're fairly certain these doors lead to normal things like closets and bedrooms, so you decide to scope them out later. You just can't handle the excitement of potentially finding a left behind coat hanger at this point - you might perish. Stooping, you unzip your suitcase far enough to dig around for your wallet. You need groceries, and as there are a fair number of reasons you'd rather not sit in an empty apartment with your thoughts right now, you decide to see just how much of Kepler remains unchanged from your childhood. 

The door bounces slightly off the jamb and your eyes threaten to roll entirely back into your brain in annoyance. Grunting you attempt to wrestle the heavy wooden monstrosity into place, to no avail. 

"Aww man, looks like you got an issue with your frame there."

"HOLY SHIT." You swing around, attempting to brace yourself against your door in response to the new voice shattering the silence of your struggle. Unfortunately for you, the door refused to back you up here, and you wince as you ready yourself to collide with the hardwood floor. 

A person sweeps forward, grabbing your shoulder and the door frame to steady you both, your traitorous door squeaking as it swings freely. They smile awkwardly and they help settle you back on your feet. 

"Thanks? I guess?" You offer after a pause, staring over the stranger.

"Heh. Yeah, sorry? About that?" They grin at you, sheepishly. 

Your dark mood lessens somewhat as you throw a small smile their way. Not this person's fault that your door is staging a rebellion. "Well, I'm glad you caught me? You're pretty fast." They flush a dark red in response. 

"Yep. Fast. I did not, uh. Fuck. Know? Yes. Know. I didn't know it was gonna happen. I'm fast. Cause I run track? Yeah! Track. For, uh. For the. Rec league?" 

Your eyebrows hit your hairline as you bear witness to what can only be the worst lie you've ever heard. "So Kepler has a rec league now?" 

The stranger wilts in front of your eyes. "Yeah? Yeah! We do. I am, fuck. The coach? Yes. I am the coach! Pleasure to meet you, name's Duck. Ah, he." 

Your grin widens without consulting you first. "Well okay, Duck. Thanks for keeping me concussion free, I guess." You offer your name and pronouns in return. "Do you live here?" 

Duck brightens. "Yeah! I'm just on the other side. If you want I could help fix that door for you? Wood's prolly expanded with the moisture in the air. Keeps the dehumidifier depot in business I guess."

You cross your arms, leaning gingerly against the door frame. "Well, now I'm worried about this just being a planned kickback from the dehumidifier depot. How do I know this wasn't a targeted hit?" 

Duck blinks at you for a minute and snorts, chuckling as he raises a hand to rub his temple. "I think you'll fit in just fine around here." He mutters, more to himself than anything else. He glances at his watch, nervously. 

"Second time’s a charm, they say!" Your mood has improved drastically since you arrived, and you wonder what that says about you, since it took threat of bodily harm to bring you to the surface of your funk. "I took up the rejuvenation project for downtown. I've got to really get a feel for this place again before I start the murals."

Duck nods, slowly. "That uh, seems like a good undertakin'. Gonna be a lot of work, but I'm glad the project finally got the green light, ya know? Kepler needs it." He leans up against the wall, speech slow and deliberate. "Any ideas for it, like goin' in?" 

You eye him curiously. His park ranger uniform is wrinkled from the day's work, hat barely maintaining its perch on his head. He seems a little strange, but amicable enough. "Well, I'd really like to capture the uh... paranormal history? I know that will get some push back from the local Gov, so gotta toe that line."

Duck smiles at you. "Better than some round here. Friend of mine owns that Cryptonomica up the way. Definitely don't worry bout pissin people off with that display."

You nod slowly, turning to slam your door shut, still keeping up the thread of conversation. "Well, I will be sure to stop by for their uh input? But I really do need to head out. I have to get groceries at some point." You eye Duck over once before grinning. "Let me know when you have tryouts again. I'd love to join. "

Duck looks at you, blush blossoming once again. "Oh for sure. Yeah. Uh, no time soon though? Cause the... the uh soccer field? Is closed. For maintenance. Yes." 

A ringing phone pierces the awkward pause that follows. "Sonofa." Duck whispers under his breath. He begins trudging down the hall, towards the shrill ringing of the land line. "Leo's store is still the best place for groceries. Tell him Duck sent ya." 

It hits you, as you murmur your thanks, that you hadn’t really planned on going to Leo’s. It is a little out of the way - the full twenty minute drive into downtown Kepler, and there is a Refuel ReFresh station just up the street on the main thoroughfare. Bemused, you watch as Duck stomps to the unit at the end of the hall, slamming the door behind him. You wrangle your own door into place, pocketing your key. The short walk to your old pickup is uneventful, and you struggle with the static on your radio before remembering with a huff that this is your new normal. You'll have to get some CDs at some point. 

It takes a little longer than expected to get to the store. Traffic had been diverted from the main road for a wreck of some sort, if the flashing lights and sirens are any indication. The area is clear on the way back, but there’s still enough of the wreckage to realize that a giant tree had fallen across the road, taking out the Refuel ReFresh roof. The constant jostling of the truck on the poorly maintained Kepler roads keeps you from dwelling too deeply. 

‘Home’ welcomes you back with just as much frustration as before, as you throw your shoulder into your door to let it release from the swollen frame. You decide to reach out to Duck tomorrow - take him up on his offer to help fix the stupid thing. Absentmindedly, you begin putting away your groceries. Dinner is a simple affair: saltine crackers and peanut butter. Having bought actual groceries, you cringe a little, but you're just too tired to really do much about it. You make empty promises to yourself to make something requiring at least four ingredients tomorrow morning for breakfast. 

Later, as you wait for the air mattress to finish filling up, you gather your blanket, pillow, and journal. Like most things in your life so far, this set up is only temporary. You find yourself settling back onto the blow up mattress, as satisfied as you can be with the quasi-comfort found there. You sketch for a bit until sleep threatens to overwhelm you, and you snuggle into your weighted blanket. The new furniture is supposed to arrive at the end of the week, so you suppose it's natural that this place doesn't feel like a real home yet. As you fall asleep, you wonder if any place ever will. 


	2. Of Reticence and Reliability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duck gets to know his neighbor a bit more, and regrets the naming of cats

"Listen here, you mothy fuck. I do not..."

“Appreciate being ‘drug into’ my bullshit.” Indrid’s voice cuts in, interrupting Duck. “I am sure you remember being the source of said bullshit, do you not?” 

Duck grunts in reluctant agreement. “Drid, I told you to give a fuck, not use me like some sorta weird Duck puppet.” 

Indrid, to his credit, at least allows Duck to finish his sentences most days. Duck never thought someone could be obnoxious in silence, but shit - just a few months ago he didn’t think he’d be bickering with the Mothman over his landline. He can hear Indrid shuffling around on the other end of the call, probably drawing another future. 

“Duck Newton, you know how” Indrid pauses, shuffling some more. “Hm. Better option.” Duck is about to ask what the hell he’s muttering about before he’s prematurely interrupted. Again. “Duck, I’ve told you before, involving myself in futures that I see never lines up well for the people involved.” Indrid huffs and Duck hears a ripping, followed by a crumpling noise. “If I could see my place in the future, it would make decisions much easier. But I’m not in the futures I see.” 

“You’ve drawn ones with yourself in them, right? Am I misrememberin?” Duck scratches his head, thinking back. 

“No, but I do that for ease of processing. Most of the time it’s easy to write off as perspective. I see it, therefore I can’t be in it… but it is more than that.”

Duck groans. “So when I told ya to ‘give a shit’, bout someone other than yourself…”

“You volunteered yourself to be a means of enacting upon those futures. Truth be told, I didn’t expect you to end up on a timeline where you not only invented a Kepler Rec league, you’ve made yourself a coach.” A sharp laugh suddenly crackles through the phone, as Indrid chirps delightedly. “Holy shit, Duck. Are you actually planning to go through with this? I’m sure they won’t remember in a few days, anyway.”

Duck feels himself redden. “Uh, fuck. No. I definitely.” Duck lets out a slow metered breath. “Was. not.”

“Unbelievable.” Duck doesn’t need a vision to tell Indrid is grinning madly. 

Clearing his throat, Duck attempts to change the subject. Given the sigh that follows from the other end, he’s moderately successful. “Why not just do the things you see other people do then? Like, if you can’t see what happens when you directly involve yourself, just follow the thread that someone else would take?”

There is a pause before a much wearier sigh fills the receiver. “Duck, I’ve… tried that, before.” He seems to brighten, as his next words come out on another chirp. “Besides, that would remove your absolutely delightful lies from my life, and I just can’t abide that. 

Duck rolls his eyes, a smile on his lips. “You dumb fuckin moth. Fine, I’ll be your future errand boy.”

“You already were, but continue.”

“I was, asshole.” Duck bites his lip, continues on. “Who are they, really?” The resounding silence of the line would make Duck think Indrid had ended the call, but the annoying tone hasn’t started ringing directly into his ear, so he figures he struck a nerve. “Drid?”

“I don’t know.” 

Duck reels. For the entire time they’ve been friends, Indrid has oozed confidence, even in his failures. Now he sounds small. Scared. “You knew ‘bout the gas station though.” Duck prods, gently.

“I knew about the station.” Indrid agrees. A vicious scribbling tells Duck that Indrid has started drawing again. “I saw the roof collapse. I saw futures where ten people were carted off to the hospital, one where the owner died.” He stops scratching at papers for a moment. “If they’d gone, new person in a small town, the worst future would come to pass. You know how people like to latch on to the new and different.”

Indrid’s voice is slightly more stilted than normal, but Duck doesn’t call him out. Instead, Duck hums. “They seemed nice enough, lil ill when I first met them, but chippered up real quick, but you know that already.” 

Indrid is quiet again, the sounds of soft scratching giving away his continued presence. 

“How’s the eye?” 

Indrid chirps in agitation. “Splendid. Purple and swollen, as every good black eye should be. Really. You have a talent.” As Duck opens his mouth to sheepishly apologize - again - Indrid interrupts. “Don’t bother. If you don’t want me to tease you about it, don’t bring it up.”

Duck bites his lip and huffs again. Slightly annoyed, Duck reluctantly realizes he isn’t going to get much more out of the Sylph. “Alright, Drid. I’ll wait to hear from you if something else happens, but for what it’s worth, thanks for sticking around? Thanks for stayin’ involved.”

Indrid makes a soft noise of affirmation before a click echoes in Duck’s ear. Rolling his eyes, he hangs the receiver back on the base. Indrid’s unexpected call had interrupted his shift at the Ranger station. Juno had been more than willing to come up on her day off, stating that all she really had on the agenda was filling up the tank in her car, and she could do that after the shift. Thanking his luck for averting one disaster already, Duck had booked it home at Indrid’s behest. He hadn’t had much to go off of, as per usual. 

Duck flopped on the couch, intent to just rest for a moment before getting up to feed his cats. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Duck woke with a hiss to a banging at his door. Irritated he grumbled to no one in particular as he walked over. Spying out the peephole, he swears softly before opening his apartment door, wide. 

The new neighbor stands before him, face set in a determined frown that twitches occasionally at the corners. “Sorry to bother you so late, but I believe we have a criminal in the building.”

Duck rubs a hand down his face. “Listen, I’m not that kinda uh, law enforcement. I do more like, nature law, less people inclined sorta stuff. I can find ya Sheriff Owen’s number though. Oh shit. Sorry. Are you, uh hurt? Shit. Shoulda asked that first. ”

The new neighbor grins, pulling a mischievous looking cat from behind their back. Donut looks back at Duck with what could only be shame. “Oh, I think you can help me with this criminal. At least, according to the documentation.” They pull the tag on Donut’s collar forward out of the massive pile of fur affixed to the persian. Duck grimaces, bracing himself. “Duck ‘n’ Donuts, hmm?” 

“Listen. I just called him Donut. Aubrey, no. Ned. Uh. Came up with the rest!”

“I’m going to pretend like I know those people for long enough to pretend to believe that you didn’t name this cat Duck ‘n’ Donuts yourself.” They stand, face scrunched in concentration for a minute. “Nope! Too hard! You did this.”

Duck laughs easily. “Yeah, ya caught me.” He reaches out and takes Donut. 

“She’s really cute, and hey, honest props for the name. Puns are the epitome of high value art.”

Duck rolls his eyes, setting Donut down to watch her whiz away to find Bob. “Yeah, you’d love my other one then.” 

His neighbor’s eyes go wide with excitement. “Okay, I thought this was a one cat household, and now i find out you’ve got two? I need to know. What wonderful name have you blessed your other cat with?” 

Gesturing his neighbor to sit on the sofa, Duck reaches into his kitchen cabinet and pulls out a small bell and a jar of treats. He holds a finger to his lips and rings the bell, a deep tone ringing out. Sauntering out of the bedroom comes his Lykoi. The cat jumps up onto a perch attached to the wall and waits patiently for a treat. 

Duck scoops up Bob and grins as he turns back to his neighbor. “This is Bob!” He’s a Lykoi, and I know folks kinda get thrown off by his…”

“He is wonderful! Hello Bob!” They grin and wave charmingly at the cat. “I can’t help but notice that’s not really a pun. May I?” They ask Bob directly, gesturing to his collar. Duck nods, amused. “Oh my god, his name is Babaduck?!?”

“Yup. I actually can’t take credit for that one. I was just fine calling him Bob forever, but then one of my friends said that charmin’ lil mask there reminded him of that movie. Can’t unsee it now.” 

“I am so glad your cat somehow snuck into my apartment and punctured my bed. This is so worth it.”

Duck frowns. “Punctured? No mattress yet?”

They wave their hand around, dismissively. “Oh, yeah that crap is coming towards the end of the week. I’ll be fine until then. I’ve got a few blankets, I can just make a pallet out of them.”

Duck shakes his head, frustrated. “Hell nah, hang on a sec.” He dumps Bob onto his neighbors lap and rummages around a few minutes in his bedroom closet before finding the folded army cot. “Since Donut did the crime, you should at least borrow this ‘til your stuff comes in. Lemme know if you need any help moving your stuff, I don’t mind.”

Duck’s neighbor stands, stretches - a few loud pops accompanying the movement. “I might take you up on that coach.” Grabbing the cot, they shoot Duck a smile as they head back to the door. “I’ll come by when the furniture comes in, if you’re free.”

Smiling, Duck nods, following them to the door. “Always glad to help. Thanks for droppin’ off the troublemaker.” He gestures back at them. “You’re welcome to visit them whenever.” He starts to shut the door as they make to walk back to their apartment. “Real glad you went to Leo’s today.”

They turn, staring at Duck with wide eyes before quickly flashing a smile and hurrying back to their place. Quietly confused, Duck closes his door before shrugging. Dumping food in cat bowls, he trudges towards his bedroom. Hunger is future Duck's problem, not his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puns til I perish.


	3. Of Suspicion and Serendipity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings in Kepler are always a little... odd.  
> Out in town, you meet a new face.

Coffee is a religion, you decide, cupping your hands around the flimsy paper container with a reverence you hold for little else. The previous night left you restless, sketching instead of sleeping as you pondered over the implications of your neighbors parting words. Occam's razor would indicate something far less… cumbersome… than the weighty idea threatening to take over your brain. 

Healthy skepticism didn't last long, growing up in Kepler. Weird blanketed this town, it had years ago at least. Being back after such a long stint away, you can't help but fall right back into that expectation. Maybe that's why Duck's parting words wormed their way right to the forefront of your mind within seconds, allowing you to deny simpler solutions with little to no guilt. Your gut instincts were never far off before, you can't imagine they have strayed far just because you've been away.

_Duck Newton is hiding something_. At least, that's your working theory. He seems like a decent enough fellow, whatever he's got going on can't be terribly nefarious. You remember him briefly from before - hair dyed blue or green or pink depending on the day. He was an upperclassman while you were ending elementary. You dug out your crappy old yearbook to confirm it as soon as the inspiration hit. Duck's cot, while useful, wasn't exactly conducive to a comfortable night's rest. 

So you flipped through an old yearbook. Time, better spent sleeping, was immediately allocated to falling down the rabbit hole of recalling faces… connecting memories to people. This is how you find yourself in the Cryptic Cafe, sipping on the strongest brew you could stomach, sketchpad open on the table as your fingers drum impatiently against its surface. You've nestled yourself into a corner booth on this dreary fall morning as you wait for your order to be called. Coffee can only sustain a body for so long; you find yourself eagerly awaiting your bagel.

Your fingers impatiently dance across the page, lines too dark, too light, too everything. The page fills with scribbles and scratched out forms that shift into new ones as the impromptu cross hatching shapes into rendered shadows. Days like this make it impossible to be productive, your mind is too _everywhere_ to focus long enough to draft coherent images. You absentmindedly toy with the small stone attached to your necklace, worrying the smooth surface between your fingertips. 

Your number is called out, jerking you away from your whirlpool of thoughts. Dropping the necklace back into your sweatshirt, you stand to collect your food. Closing your sketchbook, it's a quick trip over to the counter to grab the meal. Shooting a smile towards the baker, you turn with a smooth pivot to head back to the small sanctuary you've made in the secluded corner booth. 

Thoughts of quietly curling back into the booth are lost as you slam into what could only be the tallest and quite possibly most sturdy scarecrow you've ever met. You've met exactly zero scarecrows in your life, and tussled with even less so you aren't entirely certain, but you feel safe assuming they don't typically curse quite this loudly. Shaking your head with a bemused grin, you notice your scarecrow frantically pulling napkins out of the dispenser on the nearest table, glancing at you with uncertain eyes. You sense the stare even behind those impenetrable glasses.

The stranger regards you with a curiosity that seems to consume your very awareness; the bustle of the coffee shop is lost to static as you are drawn to stare directly into reflective red lenses. The face is unusual, to say the least; bone structure barely on this side of gaunt, dark complexion giving way to deep shadows boasting of angles that had to be a trick of the overhead fluorescent lighting. A halo of brilliantly white hair fading into pitch black roots would frame the stranger’s face, but you aren’t entirely sure that something that disheveled could really be used to frame anything. They are quite tall, you realize. 

"Well, this certainly is unexpected."

The curious lilt snaps you out of your stupor long enough for the situation - in all its awkward splendor - to hit you. You've been staring, open mouthed, at a complete stranger for what - quite possibly - has been _minutes_ . As they tower over you, arm outstretched, it comes to your attention that you are very much on the floor, sitting in a pool of what can only be the poor person's coffee. With as sticky as your hands are, coffee might be a _very_ generous way to describe the drink. 

Panicking slightly, you scramble to your feet, opting not to take the outstretched arm. You feel bad enough about wasting the person’s entire drink, the least you can do is accost them with a sticky handshake. You do take the offered napkins, sheepishly wiping your hands first before starting on the sides of your jeans. The fabric refuses to relinquish much of the spilled coffee, and you wonder halfheartedly if your jeans ascribe to the religion as well. With a frustrated huff, you shrug and resign yourself to uncomfortably damp pants, and move on quickly to attempting to dry your sweatshirt. The stone dangling from the leather string around your neck must have come out of the shirt during the fall, and you wipe it quickly and slide it back beneath, letting it weigh comfortably against your skin. You shift, uncomfortable and sticky, but finally out of excuses not to lock eyes with your recent victim. At least your hands are relatively dry now, and while your fingers seem determined to stick together, your palms are acceptable for handshaking, and you offer yours in late greeting. 

“I may be a destructive force of nature, but never let it be said that I’m not a pleasant one.” You quirk a small smile, introducing yourself.

“I’ve been told I tend to fail at general pleasantries, so I’d be the last to take issue with a walking tornado.” The strange red lenses flash as their gaze lifts up from your throat to your face. “You can call me Indrid.” He introduces himself with that same lilt, making anything he says almost whimsical. You find yourself at ease far faster than you normally would be after such an introduction, especially as he still has not accepted your handshake.

“Well, Indrid,” with your already outstretched arm, you gesture to the counter. “I’m nothing if not a gracious tornado, please let me replace your… coffee.” You finish, generously. A dark eyebrow quirks over one of those crimson lenses, the corner of Indrid’s mouth twitches. 

“Eggnog latte, I can’t stand coffee. I will take you up on that offer, however much of a coffee snob you may be.” He deadpans, the visible smirk giving away the plot. You nod, unperturbed. You feel his eyes on you as your order his sugary swill. “You’re new.” He continues quietly, after a few moments of waiting. 

“I am, mostly.” You take his drink from the barista and spin, cautiously this time, to hand it to him. He takes the cup, carefully avoiding your fingers. A quiet throat clearing behind you catches your attention as the barista pushes a fresh bagel towards you, amused. You beam in return, taking the food. Looking back towards where Indrid still stands, watching you curiously, you gesture towards your booth. “Did you want to continue this conversation in a more comfortable setting?”

Indrid’s eyebrows shoot upwards above the lenses of his glasses again, quickly before jerking back into place. “Yes, of course.” He follows you, gingerly sitting across from you, long tan arms resting on the table as he sips on his liquid diabetes. “I expect you just arrived?” He keeps his eyes on his latte. With how quickly his last one vanished before his eyes, you can’t entirely blame him. 

“Yep, just moved in yesterday.” You watch him curiously, wishing you could see behind his glasses to get a better read on the man. “I lived here before, ages ago. Guess Kepler just sticks with people.”

Indrid hums in response. “Truer words and all that” He says, distractedly. His fingertips twitch, hand absentmindedly pantomiming motions that look very familiar to you. Curious, you quietly tear a page out of the back of your sketchbook, sliding it over to him with a soft pencil. He looks up at you, nodding in quiet thanks as he begins to sketch. The motion causes his glasses to unseat just slightly, and you get a glimpse of dark orange. 

Not one to pry, you sit back in your seat, starting back up on your own sketch - occasionally glancing up at him. When his frantic scribbling ceases you gather the courage to break the silence. “So you’ve been in Kepler for awhile?” You watch as he sits back, slumped against the cushion.

“Decades.” He deadpans, glasses glinting at you cheekily. The giggle that bubbles forth in response seems to amuse him, quirking smile back on his lips. “I travel a fair bit, but I always find myself coming back here.” 

“Oh, you travel a lot? That’s all I did with my last job. I worked in curation.” You stutter slightly as Indrid swings his full attention onto you. “Uh, for museums.”

“Artifacts or artwork, if you don’t mind me asking?” His voice is pitched low, and you find yourself leaning in closer before you respond.

“Mostly artifacts.” You roll your eyes, slightly. “Up until the end there, I enjoyed my job immensely. It was time for a change.” You gesture towards him, willing the spotlight off yourself. “You?”

He seems to consider you for a moment before responding. “Consulting.” He states breezily before standing. Stretching his long arms, his shirt rucks up slightly, a bare strip of skin visible above the line of his sweatpants. You fumble, scrambling to stand with him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.” Your voice sounds timid to your ears, even as you attempt to come across as casually apologetic. 

Indrid smiles at you, a real smile. “You have not. Your preference in coffee is questionable at best, but I assure you, no offense taken.” He gestures casually over to the clock mounted above the counter. “I merely promised a friend I would pay him a visit today, and not keeping that promise could have catastrophic consequences.” Indrid reaches out, your loaned pencil in hand. 

You start, eyes widening. “Is your friend in danger?” You accept the pencil, once again noticing the efforts Indrid makes to avoid touching you. 

Indrid shakes his head, expression falling to something more serious. “No, not at all. He would visit me instead, and that is a fate I wish not to experience.” He glances back up as you snort with laughter, a bemused look flashing across his face. “I should be off, but thank you for the drink. I apologize for your sweater.” 

Casually, you shrug returning the smile. “It’s fine. The cafe’s warm enough I can probably just go on with my tee, and I’ve got my car heater that will get me home without turning into a popsicle. In fact,” you begin, reaching up behind your neck to grab the back of the sweatshirt, tugging it off in a fluid movement. “There! See? I’m all good.” You fix your hair and look back towards Indrid, and _Oh. Wow._

Indrid is doing his absolute best impression of a tomato, and you have to admit, it is spot on. The flush covers his dark cheekbones, traveling over his throat and into the top of his tank top. You quickly glance down to make sure you did in fact remember to put on a tee underneath your sweatshirt today, and yep… you’re good. When you glance back up, Indrid is steadfastly looking anywhere but at you, but he speaks up, voice breaking on a squeak before he hastily clears his throat. 

“So very glad to know you won’t have to continue your work uncomfortably. I really must be going now.” He begins hastily stepping backwards, gently backing into a spare chair before adjusting his path. 

A few feet from the door, Indrid bolts out of the cafe. You nestle back into your corner booth, content with your coffee and your sketchbook. You start working again, absentmindedly sketching before you realize what exactly is staring back at you - a pair of curious eyes over a set of exaggerated frames. What a weird guy, you find yourself wondering what spooked him so quickly. You glance down at your shirt, before dismissing that idea immediately. Sure, the design of your ‘My Heart Belongs to Mothman’ shirt isn’t exactly conventional, but the adorable drawing of the cryptid himself is clearly the highest fashion. Bemused, you continue sketching the oddly charming mottephobe of a man that literally crashed into your life. Maybe being back in Kepler won’t be as bad as you expected.


	4. Of Idiosyncrasies and IKEA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You continue to settle in, as best you can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting on mobile just to get this chapter out, I'll try to come back and edit for clarity as needed.
> 
> I swear reader does interact with not Duck characters. I just had some groundwork to lay down.

"Some assembly required my ASS." 

Your voice, sharp in the empty apartment, echos unpleasantly. The furniture, _all assembly required_ , remains stacked in boxes against the far wall. A knock sounds on the heavy wooden door, drawing your attention to the entry of yet another delivery man wheeling in a pallet of cardboard boxes. It took too long for everything to arrive, but once it started, the flow was not to be stopped. Irritation sets in as you invite yet another stranger into your space to drop off yet another box of what you can only assume is useless junk because seriously WHEN did you order this much stuff. 

Directing the delivery person to the same looming pile of boxes takes little more than a signature and a half assed arm flail. The snick of your recently reseated front door reverberates in the stillness of the space, but does not tear your gaze from the insurmountable task before you. The boxes might as well be wild beasts, snarling and pacing in the corner of the room for as hesitantly as you approach. Constructing furniture was never your forte. But you needed furniture, you needed places for your things, you needed fucking tchotchkes and bullshit so that you could pretend this was absolutely your plan and that you don't feel beaten for having to return home. 

Because it is fine. 

Everything is fine, you remind yourself as you plunk to the floor next to box mountain. 

Everything will work out, you think aggressively, opening a box to find what probably is part of a table but definitely not a whole table. 

This was the best option, you reiterate firmly to the tiny fireflies of doubt flaring and disappearing at random within your mind. Another box finally is opened and your stomach drops. Betrayed, you stare in disgust at yet another box of legs. 

"What. The. Fuck." Scrambling to open the other boxes quickly confirms your worst suspicions, as every individual furniture piece has been grouped by type and sorted before shipping, leaving you with approximately twenty boxes of furniture pieces and the worst 3D puzzle imaginable. As your futon mattress slumps over - puffing up slightly while it slowly returns to its pre-shipped glory, you attempt in vain to find any instructions attached to the boxes. 

Finding absolutely nothing helpful in the packages is expected, but nonetheless disappointing. You manage to piece together one night stand and the bed frame and futon, their parts distinctive enough to mostly figure out, but judging from the ever growing pile of loose pieces you're confident that you've royally screwed up somewhere along the line. You did manage to get a floating bookshelf hung on the wall and with the way the day has been so far, you call that a win. Sliding down the wall beside the shelf, the heaviness of your head outweighed only by your eyelids, you drift off, only for a moment. You've got the whole day to get furniture put together, and the rest of this D.I.Y from hell can wait just a few minutes while you rest your eyes.

Darkness floods your awareness with a jolt, jerking your body to attention; head slamming into the wall behind you. Blinking rapidly to clear the sleep clouding your vision, panic fills your senses as your door is thrown open - light blinding you as a dark figure drags you a few feet across the floor roughly by your upper arm. 

You shove, pushing off to see Duck's panicked face staring down at you. Scrambling to your feet as your eyes finally adjust to the rapid shift in light, you stare at Duck reproachfully. "Is there a reason you broke into my apartment?" 

Duck doesn't have to answer, not really. It certainly looks like he is going to try, but the sickening snap and crash from behind you tells you all you need to know as you spin to see your beautiful bookshelf crash to the floor where you'd been napping moments before. Schooling your features to what might pass as surprise, you swivel back to Duck. "Oh wow, that was really lucky!"

Duck shoots a relieved smile your way. "Yeah! Yeah. I ah, heard. The walls! I heard the walls, ya know. Cracking." Looking very pleased with himself, his grin widens before disappearing altogether. "Uh, sorry about your door. I can fix it."

You smile, encouragingly while your heart races to escape the confines of your chest. "Again? That's two door fixes in less than two weeks." You fiddle with the small stone affixed to your necklace, the only nervous habit you can't seem to kick.

Sheepishly rubbing the back of his head, he shrugs. "Well, ya returned my cat, so first one was free. Seein' as this ones my bad, would be kinda dickish to just leave you with a cracked door n' all." 

"Wait, I'm sorry. What?" You shake your head, as if to clear it. "Cracked?" Bemused you pace towards the door and sure enough, splintered wood stares back at you, cracked from the handle to the center of the thick slab. "Huh. That's wild, guess you must run the weight lifting club too?" Eyes lifting to view your neighbor, you watch as he gulps slowly before answering. 

"Yep. Real athletic type. I do the…" He frowns, pantomiming a curl for a moment before gesturing helplessly towards you. "...You know." He glances around the room, eyes falling on your mixed up furniture. "You need some help with those? Two of us could knock this out real quick like."

Keeping Duck in view, you shrug, moving forward to aim a potshot kick at the furniture bits strewn across the floor. "I won't turn down help, but they didn't send instructions and packaged everything all wrong."

Duck frowns at your words, mumbling to himself as he shifts a few table legs from one pile to another. The dull sound of a phone ringing down the hall seems to pull the ranger from his thoughts. "Maybe I can get a little extra help. Wait here, I'll be right back." 

You watch the ranger leave before walking quickly to your bedroom, pulling the yearbook from its perch on your closet shelf. Scrambling to find your pencil, you scratch out a hurried note next to Duck Newton's senior photo. Your free hand worries at your necklace, the weight calming around your neck. If the stone wasn't quite so sturdy, you'd fear for breaking it, but it has survived you this long.

A rumbling call from the front door jerks your attention back to the present. Closing the book with a snap as you hear Duck enter your apartment again, you're absolutely certain of the words you've just scrawled over his portrait. 

_Duck Newton has saved your life twice now._

_Duck Newton can see_ **_things_ ** _too._


	5. Of Qualms and Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some misunderstandings come to light.

The Cryptonomica stands as a tribute to the precipice of madness upon which Kepler constantly teeters. The Pine Guard started meeting in the office of the garish museum shortly after Agent Stern took it upon himself to spend an obnoxious amount of time questioning Barclay. It is his curse that he knows why, Indrid muses. There are far too many futures where Barclay's disguise slips, typically in the style of one romantic comedy or another, causing an immediate come-to-Sylvain meeting between the chef and the agent. He started ignoring them as soon as he realized the biggest risk posed by that entire debacle was second hand embarrassment. He meddles not in such affairs. 

“I just think there have to be like, FDA regulations being broken here.” Aubrey bemoans, legs swinging freely over the chair arm she flopped into upon arriving. “Government germs are still germs. If anything, they’re extra germy.”

“And you propose that the FDA would have the jurisdiction to call UP off for what, lowering our sanitation score?” Barclay scoffs from the doorway, indignation not even somewhat veiled. 

“Perish the thought, Barclay wouldn’t let his kitchen get soiled enough for that to ever be a concern.” Indrid grins over from his perch on the desk. “Thank goodness no futures rely on him tolerating a mess. We’d just have an apocalypse on our hands.”

“Thank goodness we don’t have to rely on you not being a grungy little nog-gremlin, then. I don’t even need to see the future to know how that’d end.” Barclay shoots back, a pleasant smile stretched across his face. 

Aubrey waves a hand wildly, ignoring the repartee. “I’m just saying! Maybe we could get someone else involved and make it so annoying for Stern to do his job that he’d just, ya know. Fuck off.”

“I’m fairly certain that he’s trained to handle extreme situations, including but not limited to mild annoyance.” With a grimace, Barclay folds his arms across his body. “Besides. I don’t know that more government attention is the answer here.”

“Indeed, this is sounding more and more like that parable about the elderly woman with creature induced digestion.” Indrid uncrosses his legs, letting them hang freely off of Ned’s desk.

Aubrey stops fidgeting with the tiny flame between her index fingers, sitting up abruptly. “Creature induced… Are you talking about the old lady that swallowed the fly.” 

“Who would eat the FDA agent, Aubrey? Hmm?” 

“Please tell me this is something you picked up since you’ve been over here, and there aren’t like, stories of humans eating moth-people like some weird folk tale.” Aubrey tips her shades down briefly in concern. Indrid catches the brilliant orange in one of her irises before she quickly shoves the frames back up her nose. 

“I will neither confirm or deny such things.”

“I will, he’s bullshitting you.” Barclay sighs, fond exasperation clear on his face. 

Narrowing his gaze, Indrid grins. “Aubrey, I feel certain that if Barclay asked Agent Stern to ‘Fuck right out of his kitchen’, as you say, the agent would certainly acquiesce.”

Barclay darkens, glowering back at him. "Fuck off, Indrid."

"Oh, good! There, Aubrey." Indrid grins humorlessly towards her. "Proof positive our friendly neighborhood Bigfoot knows how to get someone to stop bugging him."

Barclay sighs, eyes rolling as he pushes off the wall, casually moving towards Indrid's perch on the desk. "I will set mothballs up all around your trailer."

Indrid hums cheerfully. "Despite what this world seems to think, I'm not an actual moth."

Aubrey doesn’t tamper down the amusement plastered on her face. “I swear you guys are like siblings. It’s obnoxious and I love it.” She returns to the small flame, now rolling between her fingers like a coin before his statement catches up to her. “Wait, you're not? He's not?"

Indrid shrugs, unbothered. "Well if you want to split hairs, I suppose I would share an evolutionary history, but mothballs do little more than make everything nearby taste vaguely bitter."

Aubrey frowns for a moment before nodding. "I'll allow it."

Barclay crosses the room with a feigned nonchalance, leaning against Indrid’s perch with another friendly smile. 

“I know what you are going to do, and you will not like the result.”

“Figure I’ll get enjoyment out of ruffling your feathers either way, you absolute terror.”

Glaring through his frames, Indrid locks his ankle around the desk leg, resolute. A squeal pulls their attention towards Aubrey moments before she dashes for the door. 

Duck, arms quickly being relieved of a cat, stands in the doorframe radiating exhaustion. He levels a gaze at Indrid, who at least has the good sense to wince apologetically. 

“Not that we don’t love Donut, but… what brings the cat to this meeting?” Barclay leans a shoulder against Indrid, a gesture that comes off as companionable to most. The overt shoving to get him off the desk is decidedly less so.

“Lil' fucker got out a while back, terrorized the new neighbor. Since I can’t for the life of me figure out how, anytime I leave for a while I just gotta bring ‘em with, keep ‘em from causing more chaos.” 

“Hey Duck, sounds like Donut was just trying to live their best life and you’re being a narc.” Aubrey continues cooing over the cat, shooting a glance over to the ranger through her shades. “Don’t be a narc, Duck.”

Sitting down on the sofa that could only be affectionately deemed 'not completely vomit colored', Duck rests his head on the back. "I'm not a narc." He mumbles, words almost indistinguishable.

Aubrey seems to look him over for a minute before nodding. “Good. Wait, this is the same person we had to like, help build all of Ikea for a few days ago?”

“Got it in one, not like that was fuckin’ hard. They’re the only new person in town.”

“This the neighbor throwing Indrid off his game?” Barclay questions, pushing Indrid with the subtlety of a steamroller. Not one to be beat, Indrid sinks his weight, famed grin stretching across his features.

“I’m not off my game. They clearly aren’t important to the big picture is all.” 

Duck will level a glare directly at him in exactly six seconds, if Indrid uses his precognitive abilities to look anywhere but at the ranger in that exact moment, no one could call him out on it. 

“It’s just weird, we’re two weeks into the cycle and haven’t seen a bom-bom.” Aubrey chimes in, Donut purring loudly in her lap. “And you’ve not seen anything off kilter here?”

“She’s got a point ‘Drid, Normal’s not normal for Kepler.” 

“As I’ve said, I constantly scan for impending disaster. I’ve alerted you to the things that did catch my attention but they’ve been relatively inconsequential.” Indrid pushes forcefully against Barclay, causing the larger man to grunt as he scrambles to maintain position on the desk.

Duck gestures to the display, directing his gaze towards Aubrey. “Do I even wanna know?”

“I think it’s like a bonding thing.” She shrugs.

"If the sylphs in the room could stop playing chicken for a minute…" Madeline Cobb's amused voice booms from the door, "we could start our meeting." The woman herself stares at the two of them as she enters the room, Edmund Chicane trailing closely behind.

"Oh there's an idea! We could host a cage match between The Mothman and The Legendary Bigfoot!" Ned booms immediately. "Cryptonomica cage fights! Always rigged, of course, to generate intrigue. Can't have Bigfoot win all the time." 

Mama turns, mouth a firm line. "We are not putting real fucking Sylphs on display for revenue, Ned Chicane."

Indrid, shoving with ever increasing determination, nods serenely. "I would like to point out how hurt I am by not getting legendary in front of my own sobriquet, before also mentioning this is a capital 'B' Bad Idea." He ponders for a moment before adding, "Also I would win."

Aubrey looks up at the two sylphs, skepticism clear on her face before noticing the sweat beading on Barclay's forehead. “Is this like an insect strength thing? Can moths bench press owls or whatever, like ants?”

“For the record, I feel like I should point out that ants can’t bench press owls.” Duck pipes up. 

“We get it, you’re a forest ranger.” Swinging back to address the Sylphs, she repeats. “Is it a moth thing?”

"And again, I stress. Not a moth, so I doubt it." Indrid huffs, one foot sliding forward to brace against the nearby wall. Barclay pivots to do the same, leaving the two back to back, evenly matched.

Duck grunts, staring at the display. "Is this some weird 'there can be only one' kinda bull?"

Aubrey shakes her head. "No, that's like, specifically a Highlander thing. I think Mama's right, this is just desk chicken. " Eyes widening she reels. “WAIT IS HIGHLANDER A SYLPH?” Assessing the situation quickly, she adds “Five bucks on Barclay.”

“No, and also. Rude.” Indrid huffs, gaining ground. The pencil holder - an empty soup can, scratches across the surface before clattering to the floor, denting on impact - an unfortunate casualty of war.

"That's my desk! That's an original, one of a kind…" Huffing, Ned considers for a moment before taking a seat next to Duck. "...Ten on the moth." 

“Twenty on me." Mama moves to the edge of the desk and bumps it with a hip, the resulting tip enough to cause both Sylphs to slide quickly off. "Pay up." Tilting her head in thanks, she saunters around to sit smack in the middle of the desk, eyeing them with amusement. 

Barclay settles on the floor, legs crossed. "You knew she was gonna do that."

"There was a high likelihood." Indrid hums. 

"So you just let it because…?" 

"I was winning." Indrid flashes an eerie grin. 

"Can we just. Get down to it? Please. I am literally beggin'." 

"Duck's right. We are halfway through a cycle and have exactly zero information on this newest monster.” Mama adjusts her coat, pulling a folder out of the inner lining. 

“I mean, Dani mentioned her sketchbook disappeared the other day.” Aubrey worries her lower lip between her teeth. “She takes that thing with her everywhere and she’s super organized. I don’t think we should ya know, write that off.”

“No, you’re right. That is something to keep in mind. Anyone else lost anything recently?” Mama lets out a soft swear at the murmured dissent. “I just don’t get it. We’ve been doing this for years. We’ve only ever had one get away, but even that one had the manners to show up first.” 

Passively glancing at the immediate futures, Indrid sits up abruptly. “In one minute, Ned or Aubrey will rush out of the room. I can’t see why exactly, but it looks like the best futures spawn from Aubrey taking that action.”

“I have to relinquish the cat?” Aubrey whines to no one in particular, grumbling as she reluctantly hands Donut back to Duck.

The door chime from the front of the museum bursts through the silence. “WELCOME TO THE CRYPTONOMICA, A CATACOMB OF THE MYSTERIOUS AND MACABRE!” Aubrey groans loudly, stomping out of the room. 

Mama shoots Ned a look. “You seriously can’t get that changed?”  
  
“Why on earth would I? It adds character.”

Indrid doesn’t feel a need to chime in, gaze blank as he focuses on Aubrey’s immediate future. She will be forced into giving a tour; the patron handing over a generous donation. Aubrey doesn’t immediately slip into her showy persona, so it does seem she’s familiar with whomever she’s dealing with. Aubrey stops in front of a few displays, seemingly upon request - laughing easily and responding to some question or another with ‘Yeah, there’s not a real great library here, but I do think I have something in the back I can grab for you!’ And then she’ll be running back in the office to frantically grab a book on… local cryptids? No. Not just any. Whatever person is out there is looking for a book on him. Mothman: The Legend of West Virginia. Indrid swivels back to the present, panic clear on his features if the reaction he gets from the group is any indicator. 

“Drid? You good?”

He waves a hand at Duck, scanning further out. Aubrey will come back, simply look for a minute and say the book isn’t back there like she thought. The entity, blurry and vague in his visions will shrug, telling Aubrey they’ll just spring for dial up. That they’ll probably find more that way anyhow. 

Whoever it is, they’re right. Information about him, both of his iconic forms, is available in spades on the web. He wasn’t the most discreet, not when he was first in the area. Whatever they need this book for, it leads to a far less troublesome future than the one in which they turn to the internet. 

Tuning back into the present, he wordlessly grabs the book from Ned’s nearby shelf and hands it to Aubrey as she enters the room. She eyes him curiously, but accepts the tome, running back out of the room.

The door chimes, gaudy announcement playing again. 

“Seriously, Ned? Both ways?” Mama looks at a sheepish Ned, incredulity written on every line of her face. 

“Directionally sensitive sensors were more expensive.” 

Aubrey saunters back into the room, hands shoved into her pockets. “Well, we’ve got a problem, maybe.” 

Indrid gapes as the future clicks into place, and he speaks in tandem with Aubrey’s next words.

_“That new neighbor of Duck’s thinks he’s the mothman.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't expect to have this one up so quickly, but since the last update was so short I went ahead and cranked this one out.  
> I hope you enjoyed 'Rou has one love and it's 100% banter' time.

**Author's Note:**

> Been awhile since I posted, so feedback is always appreciated! I've actively picked back up on my other multi-chapter fic as well, so I'm going to see how it goes before I figure out my frequency.  
> Expect some perspective shifts between chapters.  
> 


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